Stony ground plantings,
surrounded by weeds.
They grow fast and wild,
don't they.
But bear little fruit.

As the sun rises
and gathers heat
they wither quickly. Yes,
Choked out by the weeds.
They thirst,
but cannot be quenched.

They are quick to sprout
with excitement,
but have such shallow roots.
Ah, and as the winds pick up
and the storms rise
they fell first and fast.
Oh, do they ever
tumble quickly.

Having no firm ground
on which to stand.
Such a pity really.
So much promise lost.